Old ways, Dying Ways
Old ways, Dying Ways
If we love our old traditions we have a responsibility to document and participate in endangered ways of life.
“A man who knows the history of his village has also a sense of responsibility; he realises that his unique information ought to be shared with other people, and he feels obliged to place it on permanent record.
This sense of duty is deepened by the awareness that the conditions of life are still changing, with a rapidity that our fathers never dreamed of, so that those born into life as it is to-day cannot be expected to understand the manner of life lived by their grandparents.”
Walter Rose, Good Neighbours, 1942
Rural England, 1942. The Industrial Revolution had already sent its shockwaves through the countryside, decimating blacksmiths, weavers, and millers alike. World War Two was now ravaging Europe, annihilating the agricultural workforce, blitzing old villages, towns, and cities, and forcing a great and enduring intensification upon the farmed landscapes. The land was changing — and changing rapidly. Nothing would be the same ever again.
The old English Agrarians1 documented this time of immense change masterfully. They could see on the horizon the impending storms of change that would strike at the heart of the lands, cultures, traditions, and people that they loved. Already, the Suffolk and Shire horses — those elegant beasts — were being replaced by tractors, and soon the very fabric of the countryside — the resilient and time-tested mixed farm system — would be ripped apart and replaced by specialised monocultures and big fields.
These very same fields of rural England were to become lonely places, where the sound of singing ploughboys and laughing, chattering farmhands were soon to be extinct sounds, with only the mechanical chugging of the lonely farmer upon his tractor heard drifting over the hills and valleys. The change “may”2 have been inevitable, but it still was to be lamented. Much beauty, tradition, and conviviality that had been essential and familiar features of the countryside for centuries was about to be swept away, replaced by innovation, intensification, and modernising ideology that paid little attention to beauty, form, and sustainability. The Agrarians heart was about to be broken — the only right response was to weep.
The Agrarians may have been powerless to stop these powerful forces of change, but there was one thing they could do: write. With their words and stories, they documented the good old ways in their sturdy clothbound books; an indelible memory of their cherished and endangered ways of life. They knew what they saw and loved was priceless and unique — utterly worthy of documentation and adoration, and far too precious to fade into permanent oblivion.
Still, today, times are a-changing. And even more rapidly than before. The precious little that remains of our traditional industries and small agrarian farms is under even more intense pressure. Old traditions are dying out from lack of participation, disinterest from the youth, and rural out-migration. The ravaging storms of globalisation are creating mono-cultures of clone towns, chain stores, and commodity crop fields. Regional foods are being replaced by ultra-processed rubbish, and good old craftsmen are being outcompeted by cheap imports from countries with dubious human rights records.
We may be powerless to stop these great forces of change on our own, but there remain at least two things we all can do. Firstly, like the Agrarians, we can document the traditions and particularities of our own local areas through words, photos, and art, thus leaving behind a valuable and permanent memory for future generations to learn from and enjoy. Secondly, we can commit to supporting what is left of the good old ways: buying directly from small farms, local craftsmen, and local producers, and participating in local traditions and festivities, keeping them alive for future generations to enjoy and profit from. And perhaps we can even learn a local endangered craft for ourselves: willow basket making, dry stone walling, cloth dying, millwrighting. Or maybe we can rediscover the recipes for local delicacies and traditional foods from our great grandmother’s cookbooks — and share our creations with our neighbours, rekindling their desires for the foods and goods that make our unique local places special.
These are a few things we can do to ensure our grandchildren can understand something of the lives that we, and our forefathers, once lived.
I would love to receive stories, photos, and art of local traditions, foods, farming etc of your own local area: haddenturner@protonmail.com
Further reading
Adrian Bell, H.J. Massingham, C. Howard Jones, A.G. Street, and Co.
I am still not fully convinced by the arguments of the technological determinists.
I've shared the same sense of grief about these dying ways, and an unbearable sense that there are more of them than I even know, ones that might not be "trendy" enough to be rediscovered and broadcasted, like crochet and sourdough baking; ones that might slip into oblivion with the passing of older generations. But I've also noticed, more recently, an incredible itch amongst the people to return to many more of these ways than I thought - weaving, darning, hand-dying, embroidery, to name a few. The problem is that those itching to rediscover these things don't always have a human avenue to do so, and in the absence of a mentor, resort to books or youtube tutorials. These are valuable repositories of instruction, no doubt, but I always feel there's something lost when the transmission of skill lacks direct human interface. Would love to hear your thoughts.